


Fear of Intimacy

by cyclxps



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, this started out as an ode to slutty racetrack and spiraled well out of my control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-10-31 17:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyclxps/pseuds/cyclxps
Summary: Race is known for getting around, but is there more to it when he and Albert drunkenly hook up at a party?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything of substance in a year in a half, but last night, I drove an hour and a half to my friend's house to get drunk, watch Newsies again, and write this in a haze of alcohol and caffeine.

The facts are these: the sun rises in the East and sets in the West and Racetrack Higgins is a bit of a slut, so Albert isn’t necessarily surprised to find him sucking face with a tall brunet at one of Jack’s parties. More surprising, however, is the possessive lurch somewhere below his ribcage that can hardly be attributed to the alcohol flowing through his veins. He braces himself against an end table, only a foot or so from where his friend has his latest conquest pressed against the wall. He can’t help but watch out the corner of his eye as Race moves to nip at the guy’s neck, but when Race’s hand floats up to slip under the hem of his victim’s loose t-shirt, Albert feels that same panicked snap in his stomach and clears his throat just slightly. Race pulls away from his current distraction and flashes Albert a toothy grin when their eyes meet.

“Nice chatting with you,” he tosses casually over his shoulder as he gravitates towards his friend who steers him towards the kitchen with an arm slung around his waist.

“That’s chatting?” Albert asks incredulously.

“Sure,” Race says, leaning into the touch.

“Yeah? What’s his name?” Albert scoffs.

“Who cares?”

And Albert doesn’t care, not with the way Race’s eyes are tracing his every movement as he digs through Jack’s liquor cabinet. “I do, if he’s the reason I haven’t seen my best friend all night.” He responds with a laugh as he comes up victorious with a bottle of Patron.

“Oh, does that mean I get to take you home tonight?” Race replies with a wink that almost certainly includes both eyes.

“As if. We both know I’m gonna have to carry your lightweight ass out of here.” He says, pushing his friend just hard enough to knock him out of the way in order to access the fridge.

“C’mon, I’m not even that drunk.”

“Not yet.” Albert smirks, procuring a small dish of limes and turning around to pour a shot for each of them.

“Touché.”

Albert grabs Race’s hand, licks a stripe across the back, and pours a line of salt before doing the same to his own hand. “Salt, shot, lime. Ready?”

“Bottoms up.” Race says with a characteristically cheeky grin, maintaining eye contact with Albert as they perform each step in sync. They stand there for a moment, Race still sucking thoughtfully on his lime wedge before he reaches out quickly to wipe the back of his hand on Albert’s shirt. Race is already dancing away by the time the redhead registers what he’s done.

“Oh, hell no,” Albert says, lunging after him and catching him by the arm.

Race twists out of his grasp and drops into a defensive stance with a twinkle in his eye, “This, from the guy who just licked my hand.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining before.” Albert returns with a smirk, advancing towards Race and attempting to jab him before he can parry.

Race finds himself backed against the counter and pauses, giving Albert the opening to catch him by the wrists. For a second the air is thick between them, and Race swallows, eyes flicking momentarily to the smile playing at the corners of Albert’s mouth. Just as he begins to pull away, feeling his ears start to burn, Albert closes the distance between them with a searing kiss, pinning Race’s hands to the counter behind him. He sinks into it, opening his mouth to allow Albert to deepen the embrace. Albert’s hands shift from his wrists to his waist, lifting him up to sit on the countertop, and Race responds by threading his fingers into his friend’s hair. When he finally has to come up for air, Race hums softly and retreats, tugging on the strands of red in his grasp.

“So that happened.” Race says with a light laugh.

“Yeah.” Albert replies, wiping his kiss-swollen mouth with the back of one hand.

“Would you maybe want it to keep happening?” Race asks with a coy smile that reflects none of the icy nervousness bubbling just under the surface of his flushed skin.

Albert bites his lip, taking a long beat to consider the implications of what they’re doing before that now-familiar flame curls in the pit of his stomach and he pulls Race back in with a firm hand on the back of his neck. Race smiles into the kiss, knocking their teeth together before pulling away again.

“Follow me,” He says, taking Albert by the hand and leading him out of the kitchen and down the hall. He raps gently on a door and waits no longer than a second for a response before pulling Albert into what he quickly realizes is a coat closet. “Hi, MTV, welcome to my crib.”

Albert hardly has a chance to wonder how many hookups Race has had in this very closet before they’re kissing again and it becomes impossible to focus on anything other than the graze of Race’s tongue against his. He moves to mouth at the place where Race’s neck meets his shoulder and succeeds in drawing a moan out of him.

“Shit, you are good at that.” Race knocks his head against the door, baring his neck further, and Albert bites down just hard enough to leave a bruise blossoming in his wake. Race bucks his hips against him and they both gasp at the friction. “Wait, Albert wait—" Race groans, and he flips them so that he has Albert pinned against the door. Race sinks to his knees, and Albert fists a hand into his hair just to keep upright. “Can I—Is this okay?” the blond asks carefully, and Albert thinks he might black out if Race doesn’t do _something_.

“Yes, god,” He practically whines in a way that would be embarrassing under any other circumstances.

“Nope, just Race.” Albert does whine at that, which triggers a small chuckle from Race. Albert can feel his legs shaking. In fact, he’s probably only capable of standing thanks to the hand on his hip keeping him flush against the door. He grips Race’s curls even tighter causing the boy below him to gasp. “Ow, okay calm down jeez.” Albert thinks to apologize, but then Race is undoing his fly and he forgets to think at all.

Race gets his jeans down around his thighs, and Albert swears he can hear his breath hitch. He runs his fingers through Race’s hair in what he hopes is an encouraging gesture and can do nothing but shudder when Race begins to palm his dick through his thin boxers. It’s almost overwhelming, but somehow the only thing Albert can think is how _focused_ Race looks even in the darkness. It seems like an eternity before Race leans in to mouth at his still-clothed cock, but when he does, it sends sparks shooting up Albert’s spine.

“Race, please.” He breathes out, and the blond snorts before unceremoniously yanking down Albert’s boxers. He gets one hand around Albert’s length, pumping once, twice before licking a stripe from base to tip, and Albert nearly chokes on air. Race’s grip on his hip tightens, and when he wraps his lips around the head of his dick, Albert understands why, summoning the depths of his willpower to keep from choking his best friend then and there. Race bobs his head a couple times, using his hand to fist what he can’t fit in his mouth and humming contentedly when Albert lets out a broken moan. He’s already so close, can practically feel his eyes roll back into his head when Race pulls back to tongue at the slit. Race takes an audible breath through his nose and swallows down until Albert feels his dick hit the back of his throat. His orgasm hits suddenly, like a wave crashing over him from behind, and Albert tries to pull Race off to no avail. Race swallows valiantly and sits back on his heels, and Albert slides down to sit across from him on the floor.

“Give a guy some warning next time.” He says, voice rough.

“Next time?” is all Albert can think to say.

“Don’t worry, I already got mine.” Race says, withdrawing a sticky hand from his own pants, and Albert can’t recall when that hand disappeared from his hip.

Race leans forward and presses a kiss to Albert’s cheek before standing up on shaky legs, clapping him on the shoulder and slipping out the door, presumably off to wash his hands or maybe brush his teeth, and Albert slumps against the door, utterly, cosmically perplexed. He sits there for what feels like an eternity, but Race doesn’t return, so he tries his best to straighten himself out before stepping back into the hall, feeling rattled and looking just as bad. He scans the room as he rejoins the party for any sign of Race, but he only succeeds in earning a dirty look from the night’s first course, the boy who likely would’ve found himself in a certain closet if Albert hadn’t intervened. That’s what bothers him though; Race is hardly one to be ashamed of hookups. In fact, more often than not, a disheveled Race would appear at Albert’s side as soon as a party started to wind down, making his present absence all the more apparent. Race is simply gone, and Albert doesn’t want to think about why that may be. After all, Albert made the first move, yet hadn’t Race made every move after?

He changes targets, searching instead for a head of curly, black hair until he sees David making his way through the crowd to the kitchen. Albert’s heart lurches only a little, but David’s the only person guaranteed to be sober, so he swallows his pride and follows.

“Dave—David, have you seen Race?” How would he normally have asked that question?

“Uh, yeah, he left maybe fifteen minutes ago, looked a little rough. You didn’t fight, did you?” David replied, voice laced with concern.

“No!” He answers too quickly. “No. I don’t think so. Fuck.”

David’s eyes narrow, and it’s apparent that Albert has already given himself away. “Oh, _ew_ ,” He shudders, wrinkles his nose, then “what the hell, Albert?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, but it happened, and now everything is fucked up!”

David raises one calm, thoughtful eyebrow then leads Albert to the kitchen table and sits him down. “Okay, explain.”

“I kissed him.” Albert’s eyes flick over to the scene of the crime. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “ _Fuck_ , okay, I kissed him, and then he sucked me off in the closet, and I didn’t stop him, but he _wanted to_ , or at least, I thought he did, but then he left, and it’s _Race_.”

David considers everything for a moment. “Did _you_ want him to?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t _not_ want him to!”

“Okay, okay, and did you, you know, reciprocate?”

“Fuck, Dave, I didn’t really get the chance!”

David hums and nods slowly, absorbing this new information. “So, Racetrack Higgins came in his pants while blowing you in the closet?” He doesn’t laugh, but the crinkle at the corners of his eyes gives him away, nonetheless.

“Yes, okay?” He pauses, “No. Fuck, I don’t know. He’s my best friend, David.”

He shakes his head, “Albert, it’s Race. He will literally fuck anything that moves. You’re drunk, and it happens; it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Albert thinks for a moment. “Yeah, no, you’re right.”

David smiles and touches him lightly on the arm. “Unless it did.”

“What?” Albert scoffs.

“Well,” David retracts his hand, but slowly. “You kissed him.”

Albert shakes his head decisively. “It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Okay.” If David is skeptical, he doesn't show it.

“Thanks, Dave,” Albert stands and smiles, then thinks better of it, “and uh, could you maybe not tell anyone?”

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "2nite is get drunk and write newsies fic night"  
> "oh is it?"


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not that Albert spends the majority of the next two days with a quiet nervousness thrumming in the back of his mind, but when Race texts him with plans for a study session at Jacobi’s, his sigh of relief feels like the first breath he’s taken since the so-called Closet Incident. Although Albert could never be scared of Race, he’s quickly realizing how terrified he is of _losing_ Race, and while David had mostly assured him otherwise, he keeps wondering if things might be, well, different. Any lingering fear dissolves the moment he walks into Jacobi’s and sees Race absentmindedly shredding a napkin while the rest of their friends attempt to study with varying degrees of success. How could he not be the same as ever? Albert rolls up to the table just as Race sprinkles his napkin scraps over a downtrodden Crutchie’s head.

“Sup, Albert,” Race says, budging over to make room for him to sit. “Crutchie’s failing Latin again.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t be if you’d let him focus.” David mutters from across the table where he has his head in his hands over his calculus textbook.

Albert snorts and slides into the booth next to Race, cutting him off from harassing Crutchie who shoots him a grateful, if slightly pained look from the chair he’s pulled over from another table. Truthfully, any hopes of getting work done are shattered the second Race shows up, but no one wants to see the fit he would throw if he wasn’t invited, so the more diplomatically-minded Jack and David have convinced Katherine and Crutchie that putting up with Race’s antics is worth it in the end. Besides, they can usually get by if Albert is there to keep him occupied. Today is different though because Albert can’t get his mind off the three inches of space between them, and it’s making him insufferable to the point that Race is the one to finally snatch away the pen that he can’t stop clicking.

“You good there, buddy?” He says with a slight quirk of the eyebrows, and Albert wills himself not to remember the same teasing lilt to Race’s voice as he got his pants around his knees.

“Yeah, ‘m fine, just can’t focus on fucking rhetorical theory.” Albert whispers back, digging his nails into his palm as he rereads the same sentence for probably the tenth time. It’s normal, he thinks, to be a bit preoccupied with the way his friend bites his lip while focusing when he had that same friend pinned against a wall just last night. It may not have meant anything, but that doesn’t mean he has to forget about it right away, right? He looks up to see whether David has noticed anything weird, but the other boy is leaning over to help Jack with something, so Albert decides it’s all in his head. Maybe that’s the problem; even Race is bent over a textbook for once.

“What are the odds—” Albert begins thoughtfully and watches as the blond perks up at the words. “What are the odds that you chug the rest of David’s water?”

“One in five.” Race answers immediately. “One, two, three—”

“Four.” Albert says as Race says two again.

“Shit, I kind of wanted to do it just to annoy him.” Race says with a smile. “Alright, what are the odds you order me a slice of pizza?”

“One in twenty.” He counts off, and then—

“Sixteen.” They say it in sync, and Albert groans.

“Y’know it’s fucked up how often I end up on the wrong side of this game,” Albert says, climbing out of the booth, “and don’t think for even a second that I approve of your Hawaiian pizza thing.”

“Dude, you just gotta stop playing.” Jack chimes in from his spot wedged in between David and Katherine. “Everyone knows Race always wins.”

“Hey, I get him sometimes!”

“Albert’s not going to learn because it’s never anything he actually doesn’t want to do.” Katherine says sagely, looking up from her laptop for the first time since cracking it open. When she gets going, Katherine enters a trance state. The building could burn down around her, and she’d probably keep writing, unless there’s a chance to make fun of one of the boys.

“Yeah, well, my wallet is saying otherwise.” Albert complains, stalking over to the counter to fulfill his punishment.

Still, he feels his ears begin to burn at Katherine’s words. Why should he have to justify anything? It’s just a dumb game, and besides, Race never makes him do anything truly embarrassing. They’ve been using it to fuck with each other pretty much since the day they met, starting with “What are the odds you ask the TA for her number after class?” and when has Albert ever been one to turn down a dare? He puts it down to just one of those things that the others will never get about him and Race. They all met freshman year, minus Jack and Crutchie who knew each other from high school, but some of them clicked better than others. Albert never makes fun of David for finishing Jack’s sentences, so why should it be different between him and Race? Of course, Albert can’t remember Jack and David ever hooking up at a party. He extinguishes that thought before it can catch up to him and returns to the table with a slice of pizza for Race and a Perrier for himself.

“See, you make fun of me, but you drink that shit.” Race says, taking a large bite of pineapple-adorned pizza.

“You’re a freak.” Albert says decisively, taking his seat.

Race pauses, leans into Albert’s space with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “That’s not what you were saying last night.”

Albert chokes on his drink, and Crutchie shoots him a look of concern and slight bewilderment. “Are you alright?”

Race slaps him on the back several times, in an attempt to help clear his lungs. “Don’t worry about it, Crutchie.”

“Yeah, Race will take care of it himself,” Albert says pointedly as the blond wipes up the spill.

Crutchie fixes him with an odd look before returning to his translation, but it’s worth it for the way Race’s face flushes to an even shade of pink. If he wants to have a laugh, well, that road certainly goes both ways. He’s sorry though when Race just ducks his head and goes back to reading instead of cracking wise in return. Surely he hadn’t taken it too far, not when Race had joked first, and besides, there’s never been anything they couldn’t laugh about. Still, Albert finds himself counting ceiling tiles instead of trying to work, and when Jack suggests they pack it in, he feels almost relieved at the chance to escape the quiet tension brewing between them. Albert goes to the bathroom before leaving, giving Race plenty of time to make his escape, but when he steps out into the cool evening air, he finds his friend loitering by the door, smoking a cigarette. He joins him wordlessly, leaning up against the brick wall of the building. Race stays quiet but passes his cig to Albert after a particularly long drag.

“What’s up?” Albert finally asks, savoring the tickle in his lungs.

“Don’t know.” Race responds, and he tips his head back against the wall and watches the smoke curl into the atmosphere.

Albert heaves a sigh, “Are we—“ He stops, lets the question hang truncated in the air. “It doesn’t have to _mean_ anything,” he parrots back David’s words, the words that have been ringing in his head all day. Race nods, and Albert notices that his eyes are closed. “Well, it’s us. Of course, it means something, but—“ A beat. “Fuck, I just want us to be friends.”

“Albert,” Race smiles, tries to, with his eyes still closed, “we’re always going to be friends.”

“Yeah,” Albert watches him for a moment, but Race makes no move to speak. “I’ll see you Monday?” The blond nods, and Albert reaches out to clap him on the shoulder but thinks better of it. “Okay, good.”

If Albert’s chest feels tight as he walks away, he blames it on the smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> race eats pineapple on pizza change my mind


	3. Chapter 3

Needless to say, Albert doesn’t see him on Monday. Sure, they text, but Race seems to have an endless slew of excuses not to spend any real time together, and by the time Thursday rolls around, Albert is ready to drink about it. Luckily for him, thirsty Thursdays as hosted by Specs and Romeo occur once a month and have achieved near-mythic status around campus. All it takes to get in is a mutual friend and a contribution to the night’s alcohol stash, so Albert finds himself walking half a mile off campus, five-dollar bottle of chardonnay tucked under his arm, towards the one place Race is almost guaranteed to be.

“Albert!” Specs greets him as soon as he crosses the threshold into the hazy entryway. “Smoke room’s down the hall, alcohol in the kitchen, and your boy’s upstairs.”

Albert’s still adjusting to the dim lighting and pounding bass. “Sorry, my boy?”

“Dude, Racer’s been asking for you all night,” Specs says. “He’s  _ fucked up _ .”

“Alright, uh, thanks?”

“Yeah, man. Enjoy the party.” Specs wanders off, likely to facilitate the bad decisions of his other guests.

Albert takes a deep breath and shakes his head before moving into the kitchen where he adds his cheap wine to the mountain of booze on the dining table. He hazards a look at the selection despite still being buzzed from pregaming, and though he knows he shouldn’t need it, he downs a shot of vodka for courage and starts his ascent to the second floor. It seems he hardly has a chance to set foot in the room before his arms are full of a wobbly Race. He mumbles something into Albert’s shoulder, arms wrapped tight around his waist.

“Separation anxiety?” Albert asks when Race doesn’t let go, bringing his hand up to thread through his friend’s sweaty blond curls. Race nods, somehow burrowing his head further into the crook of Albert’s neck. “And whose fault is that?”

“Shut up, ugly.” Race says, and Albert feels his smile rather than seeing it.

“Oh,  _ that’s _ how it is?” Albert pries Race off and takes in his wrecked appearance. “You look like shit.” He says, simultaneously realizing just how fuzzy his head feels. Still, Race is worse off, standing there swaying with face flushed and hair sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck. “How much did you drink?”

“Dunno.” Race shrugs and stumbles over to slump into a newly freed section of couch.

They end up sitting there for some time, watching Romeo thrash people in Super Smash Bros. Well, Albert’s watching anyway. Race is folded up against him, eyes squeezed shut, and Albert would think he was sleeping if not for the way one hand is tightly fisted in the back of his tank top as if to keep him from running away or slipping through his fingers like sand. Albert is content to stay put though, warmth from both alcohol and proximity buzzing under his skin, and he keeps one arm slung around his friend’s narrow shoulders. He’s drunk past the point of needing excuses, so even though it’s probably a little too intimate for Race to be tracing indeterminable patterns into the skin of his arm, he does nothing to dissuade the additional point of contact. So what if he  _ likes _ having all of Race’s attention on him for once? He’s become accustomed over the years to watching him flit between conversations like a gregarious hummingbird, and while sometimes he’s proud to be friends with someone who could sell water to a drowning man, he occasionally can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s not captivating enough for Race on his own.

“Albert?” Race whispers after a while, pulling away just enough to fix him with that blue-eyed gaze.

“Hmm?” Albert raises one eyebrow and doesn’t stop absentmindedly twisting blond locks around his fingers.

Race stifles what sounds like a whine in the back of his throat and presses his forehead back to Albert’s shoulder, murmuring something that Albert can’t quite make out above the din of the party.

“Race?”

He screws his eyes shut again, “Kiss me?” His voice is so small it nearly breaks Albert’s heart, and he can’t think to do anything but bring his other hand up to cup Race’s jaw and press a gentle kiss, too gentle, to his barely parted lips.

Race shudders against him, pulls him impossibly closer, and Albert deepens the kiss, shifting to straddle Race and push him back against the couch. When they finally break apart, Race throws his head back, breathing ragged, and Albert pauses for one breathless moment and can’t help but think how  _ beautiful _ Race looks. It’s a lie to say the thought doesn’t paralyze him, so when Race tries to tug him back down, he resists.

“Race, we’re drunk.”

“Yeah,” the blond sighs, and his blue eyes are cloudy with drink and something else.

“So we probably shouldn’t be doing this.” Albert’s suddenly all too aware of the party going on around them, and his stomach turns at the thought of someone seeing them. He climbs off his friend, putting just enough space between them to escape Race’s gravity and clear his head.

“Oh,” Race becomes very interested in picking at his fingernail. “‘M sorry,” he mumbles after a moment.

“No! No, it’s not that—it’s just” Albert runs out of words, doesn’t know how he fucked up or how to reconcile it, just wants to wipe away the undisguised sorrow on Race’s face. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”

“Okay.”

Albert extends a hand to help up his somewhat more intoxicated friend, and when Race makes it to his feet, he doesn’t let go, just pulls the taller boy after him as they make their way outside. The night is colder than when Albert arrived, but it’s clear, and a few pinprick stars wink at them from where they pierce the city’s halo of light. He catches himself staring up at the cloudless night, palm still pressed against Race’s, and when he drops his hand to snake an arm around Race’s waist, it somehow feels  _ less _ incriminating.

“You crashing at my place tonight?” It’s not an unusual arrangement after late nights out together, but all things considered, asking feels like the safer bet.

“Sure,” Race shivers, and if Albert holds him a little tighter, he tells himself that’s why.

“Cool.” They walk in comfortable silence for a while, then, “You really are my best friend, you know?”

Race smiles and bumps their shoulders together, “You’re mine too.” Of course, Albert knows that already. It’s not the kind of thing you say to someone if you’re not sure you’ll hear it in return.

By the time they reach campus, Race’s feet are starting to drag, and he faceplants into Albert’s bed almost immediately upon arrival. Albert only grumbles a little about having to pull off his shoes for him. The truth is he’s used to sacrificing his bed to a drunk Race, and he’s trying to wrench one pillow away from his barely-conscious friend when he swears he hears the blond mutter  _ stay _ . In the morning he won’t remember why he hesitates for so long or why he makes sure to throw a blanket over Race’s sleeping form before retiring to the couch, but just like everything concerning Race these days, it has something to do with the striking need to both see him smile and be the reason for it.

Albert falls asleep to a spinning room and wakes up to a pounding head, but he remembers, couldn’t forget if he tried, the ghost of lips against his and the way Race seemed to tremble under his touch. He pulls his blankets over his head and winces. He’s fucked, totally fucked, because sure, his best friend is kind of a slag, but Albert  _ isn’t _ . He doesn’t  _ do _ this, hadn’t even kissed anyone since the girl he was with for a month over the summer. Now Racetrack Higgins wants to play friends with benefits, and drunk Albert DaSilva can’t seem to remember why that  _ might _ be a bad idea, much to his sober counterpart’s chagrin. It’s just that Race doesn’t see a point in keeping a routine partner, doesn’t keep much of a routine anything for that matter, and Albert really would rather not be left in the dust next time someone or something catches his eye. Sure, Albert’s in a bit of a dry spell, and yeah, Race is definitely hot, but they’ve been steadfast friends for nearly two years and likely will be for a good twenty more if Albert doesn’t fuck it up for the sake of getting his dick wet. The problem lies in that when Race steps out of the bathroom with no shirt and a pair of borrowed shorts slung low around his hips, Albert nearly bursts a blood vessel trying not to think about running his fingers across every inch of his friend’s exposed skin.

“I think I’m dying. Is breakfast good or bad for a hangover?” Race says, shuffling into the kitchen and starting to rummage through Albert’s pantry.

“I don’t think anything could make this headache worse.”

“Don’t you have class, like, fifteen minutes ago?” It’s amazing how Race can still laugh at him when he no doubt spent half the morning bent over the toilet.

“Not going.” Albert groans, burrowing further into his nest of blankets on the couch.

“Ha, hypocrite.”

“‘S your fault anyway.”

“That so?” Albert hums the affirmative. “Well, what do you say I make you an omelet and we call it even?”

“Fine, but if we go out tonight, I’m not even  _ looking _ at alcohol.”

“Shit, you can say that again.”

Privately, Albert swears he’ll never drink again if it means he can stop envisioning Race spread out beneath him every time he closes his eyes, but for now, he smiles through it, eats his breakfast, and when Race finally says his goodbye, he takes a cold, cold shower and tries to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Albert is so fucked.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, here is chapter 4 of "i hate epithets and pronouns confuse me" starring race, albert, and the one (1) brain cell that exists between them.
> 
> Seriously though, if you've left a comment or even a simple kudos, thank you. That is like crack to me.

It’s less than twelve hours before Albert finds himself pressed shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee against Race in the back of a Lyft, content to keep quiet while Jack and Katherine argue about something or other. They’re meeting a few others at some club downtown, and sober as he is, he’s wondering if maybe he should’ve sat this one out. It’s not that things are any more awkward between him and Race; really he’s just tired, sick of trying to figure out what’s going on between them and not in the mood to grind up on strangers. That said, when they arrive, he ends up leaning against the bar watching Race do exactly that, and he doesn’t know why he can’t tear his eyes away. Maybe that’s why when Katherine wanders over with two shots of whiskey and a smile, he doesn’t hesitate to accept, clinking his glass to hers and knocking it back with only the slightest grimace.

“So much for not drinking tonight.” He mutters, rolling the small glass between his finger and thumb.

Katherine shrugs, “You looked like you could use it.”

“Ha, that obvious?” He frowns as Race loops his arms around someone’s neck. “I’m just . . . thinking.”

“About him.” It’s not a question, but Albert nods once anyway. “Albert, whatever’s going on between you two . . . just talk to him. I mean, he won’t be mad; you’re practically the same person.”

“I know. Thanks, Katherine.”

He watches Race dance for a while longer, and it _hurts_. He’s just the brightest thing in the room without trying, strange and fascinating and unbelievable, and Albert _wants_ him. He’s mad even, mad that Race can go from kissing him one night to ignoring him the next, so he finds himself stomping out to the center of the dance floor, almost spellbound, pulling Race away from the stranger he’s currently bewitching and leading him to the bathroom with a tight grip on the back of his neck. He pushes Race against the door roughly and stares him down with an undisguised bitterness.

“What’s this about, Race?”

“What do you mean?”

“This. Us.” Race is paralyzed under his hand. “You wanna kiss me one night and whore yourself out the next?”

Race looks away nervously. “What? You jealous?” His voice is not nearly as confident as his words.

Albert scoffs, “Please, Race, I honestly don’t care who you sleep with.” He tugs Race by the chin to force him to meet his gaze. “But don’t think I’m gonna be just another notch in your bedpost or whatever.”

“Albert—”

“No, fuck that.” Albert pushes their lips together roughly, no finesse.

Race moans into his mouth as their tongues intertwine, and Albert twists one hand into Race’s hair and braces himself against the door with the other. He gets a thigh between Race’s legs and feels the line of his already half-hard dick pressing against him. Breaking the near-desperate kiss, Albert tugs on Race’s hair, triggering a gasp as he moves to mouth at his jawline.

“Are you sober?” Albert ghosts his lips against Race’s ear and receives a hasty nod in return. “Good, want you to remember this.”

Suddenly he’s got a hand on Race’s fly, and the blond practically keens beneath him. Albert pets through his curls, putting all his energy into the soothing gesture even as he yanks down his friend’s pants.

“You good, Race?” The blond nods, but his eyes are closed, and he’s practically vibrating under Albert’s touch. He cups Race’s cheek, brushing the side of his face gently with his thumb. “Hey, talk to me.”

“‘M good,” Race whispers, almost reverent in his tone, “ _Fuck_ , so good, just— _please_.”

Albert uses both hands to still Race’s hips where they’re stuttering against his leg. “Alright, cool it. Let me take care of you this time, huh?”

Race lets out a breathless laugh at his words, “Albert, you’re actually going to kill me.”

“Oh, well, I can stop if—” Albert teases and pulls his hands away only centimeters.

“—if you don’t _put your hand on my dick_ I’m gonna—” Race breaks off when Albert does just that, dipping a hand under his waistband to wrap around Race’s length.

“Someone’s bossy.” Albert says with a smirk as Race turns to putty under his feather-light touch.

“Albert _please_ —” Albert cuts him off with a kiss and begins jerking him off for real, swallowing each of Race’s pleas and whines.

The angle is awkward, and Albert’s never done this to anyone but himself, but really the concept is simple enough. It’s not long before Albert can feel him getting close, as moans turn to shaky gasps, and he pulls away, brushes his lips, his cheek with his thumb. “Come on, Race, come for me, baby,” he murmurs, barely audible, but it pushes Race over the edge, nonetheless. Albert strokes him through it, and when he’s done, Race collapses against the door, as though waking up from a trance.

“Holy _shit_ , Albert.” He says it almost _mournfully_.

Albert laughs, shaking his head as he goes to wash his hands, “Just returning the favor.” He’s painfully hard in his pants, but that’s beside the point: he’ll have the image of Race choking on his name burned into the back of his mind for the rest of this night and every other.

“God, I’m fucking dreaming,” Race drags his hands over his face and groans, “I’m so fucking _sober_ , what the hell.”

Albert sighs, “Should we, fuck, should we talk about this?”

“Do we have to?” Race’s voice is light, but his eyes are panicked when he meets Albert’s.

“Probably.” Race winces at that. “Fine, I’ll start. You’re my best friend,” Race nods, so Albert continues, “You’re my best friend, and that’s the most important thing, but _whatever we’re doing_ is kind of incredible, and we don’t have to _date_ or whatever, but—”

“—but you want to see it through.” For the first time in Albert’s memory, Race is inscrutable.

“Well . . . yeah.” Albert finishes lamely, and he feels all of a sudden the immense weight in the room, frozen as Race chews his thumbnail.

A beat passes, then another. “Good,” Race says, and there’s a sense of finality to it.

“Good?”

“Yeah, good.” Race smiles then, sunnier than Albert’s seen him in a while, and he walks over and presses a soft kiss to Albert’s neck. “We should get back out there.”

Albert feels weightless for the rest of the night, happy now to make a fool of himself on the dance floor because he can feel Race’s energy through the crowd. It’s like they’re rubber-banded together, not conjoined at the hip but always gravitating back to one another, and every brush of skin feels electric all over again. There’s something intoxicating about having a secret, and there’s something intoxicating about having Race, too. All in all, it’s more than enough to keep Albert buzzing long after the alcohol fizzles out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i understand that i am "writing this fic" and "in control of what happens" but wow i sure do hurt myself in new and interesting ways every time!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait, but I hope the chapter more than makes up for it. Also..... bumping up the rating for this one lol

It’s Monday, and Albert is sitting in the back of his rhetoric and composition lecture and playing online solitaire instead of taking notes when the first message comes through.

 **_Race:_ ** _come over im bored lol_

He rolls his eyes and wastes no time in responding.

 **_Albert:_ ** _can’t im in class_

_as you well know_

**_Race:_ ** _ughhhhh_

Albert just shakes his head and smiles to himself before returning to his game and half-heartedly listening to his professor prattle on about disciplinary conventions or communities of discourse or whatever the hell she’s talking about. He’s almost remorseful about not indulging Race a little more until about twelve minutes later when his friend’s next text gives him a reason not to be.

 ** _Race:_** <attachment: 1 image>

 **_Albert:_ ** _Do Not send me nudes while i am in class_

 **_Race:_ ** _:(((((_

_you suck_

**_Albert:_ ** _yeah i bet you’d like that_

Teasing is useless though because he’s stuck with forty-five minutes left in class, and Race’s plan, whatever it may be, is clearly working because Albert cannot, for his life, stop thinking about pinning him to his bed, kissing him senseless, and proceeding to take him apart piece by piece until he’s nothing but a panting mess beneath him. He’s in the middle of drafting a _very_ put off message when Race beats him to the punch.

 **_Race:_ ** _thought u should know that im fingering myself since u won’t get over here and do it for me_

 **_Albert:_ ** _why the FUCK do you think i should know that????_

 **_Race:_ ** _;))))_

 **_Albert:_ ** _slut_

 **_Race:_ ** _oh yeah baby talk dirty to me_

 **_Albert:_ ** _i swear to god i will KILL you_

 **_Race:_ ** _soooo the other night_

_at the club_

_you were jealous, weren’t you?_

Albert’s blood runs cold. It’s just like Race to know exactly which buttons to push in order to make Albert squirm. Technically speaking, yes, he was jealous, but well, it’s not like he has at any point confronted the implications of that. He and Race are friends, with _maybe_ something blossoming on the side, and Albert can’t really admit to being jealous if he can’t even justify it to himself. He buries his face in his hands and silently mourns the fact that Race has always been able to play him like a finely-tuned instrument.

 **_Albert:_ ** _no comment._

 **_Race:_ ** _haha knew it_

_don’t worry tho that was my evil plan ;)_

_also that’s hot lol_

Albert thunks his head against his desk, unsure exactly why he’s so _mortified_ , but as always, he’s keenly aware that two can play at that game.

 **_Albert:_ ** _ohhhh so that’s why you nearly creamed yourself before i could even get a hand on you_

 **_Race:_ ** _don’t be mean :((((_

_it’s killing my boner_

**_Albert:_ ** _remind me why i should care?_

 **_Race:_ ** _bc it directly informs whether or not i get you off once you’re out of class?_

 **_Albert:_ ** _alright fair play_

_how’s it going over there?_

**_Race:_ ** _oh so Now he wants to know_

 **_Albert:_ ** _i mean it seems a bit more relevant now yeah_

 **_Race:_ ** _then maybe you should come over here and see for yourself_

 **_Albert:_ ** _yeah? and then what?_

 **_Race:_ ** _then i kiss you until you can’t breathe and in the wise words of our lord and savior Stefani Germanotta, take a ride on your disco stick_

Race is being facetious—when is he not—but Albert knows by now that when it comes to Race, a joke is never just that. He’ll never admit to it, of course, but Albert knows it’s a vulnerability thing. You can’t face rejection if you never set yourself up to get rejected, so Racetrack Higgins doesn’t ask for anything. He makes jokes, and he makes demands, and currently, he’s making it very hard for Albert to even feign interest in the subtle art of rhetoric. Still, Albert is nothing if not stubborn, so he grits his teeth and types out a sufficiently dismissive reply.

 **_Albert:_ ** _as hot as that sounds i’ve still got half an hour of class so you’re on your own_

 **_Race:_ ** _:(((( at least send me a picture?_

_nothing dirty i just . . . wanna see ur face_

**_Albert:_ ** _you have like a thousand pictures of my face_

 **_Race:_ ** _forget it_

Albert heaves a sigh and smiles to himself before opening his webcam. He snaps a picture of his most disapproving look and tries to convince himself it doesn’t make him totally whipped. It’s just, well, an oddly endearing request, even if it ultimately amounts to Race looking for a new entry in his spank bank.

 **_Albert:_ ** <attachment: 1 image>

 **_Race:_ ** _:))))_

 **_Albert:_ ** _yeah yeah have fun_

_see you after class_

Time trickles by, and Albert tries his very best not to imagine what Race might be doing in his room across campus. It’s quite the image: his friend, if that term is even the right one, all splayed out, gangly limbs and pale skin, phone in one hand while the fingers of his other slip in and out of his body. Really, it’s not fair. How is Albert supposed to keep it together, knowing that he’s the subject of even one of Race’s lewd fantasies? It’s the concrete confirmation of what he had surely suspected but not dared to hope for: Race wants him. Race wants him, and not in an inadvisable drunk hook-up way or even an “i’m horny and you’re the nearest available screw” way. Race actually, genuinely wants him, even when he’s sober and alone, and suddenly, Albert feels the overwhelming need to make up for lost time because well, Race is exceedingly attractive, not to mention good at what he does, and Albert feels like a damn fool for having spent the last few months with nothing but the company of his right hand when it seems he could’ve spent them in the company of a certain blond instead.

By the time class lets out, Albert is practically going out of his mind, unable to ignore the heat coiled tight like a spring in the pit of his stomach, so there’s really only one thing to do. He hightails it to Race’s dorm. He knocks thrice, about to knock again when the door swings open, and Race pulls him in by his shirt, slamming him against the door as soon as it closes.

“ _Never_ make me wait that long again.” Race says, and his hands are everywhere all at once, Albert’s face, his chest, his waist. His breath is ragged, almost rapturous, when he breathes in Albert’s scent, and Albert would give him anything if it would calm him down.

“Jesus Christ, Race, slow down.” He cups the blond’s cheeks and forces him to meet his eye. “You _waited_ for me?” He rakes his eyes over Race’s body, clothed in nothing but a pair of boxers, and he stifles a laugh as he once again catches Race’s wild gaze.

Race pouts, “does it matter?” His expression changes as he allows himself to really see Albert’s form, and there’s no mistaking the lust that clouds his eyes. “I sincerely hope you didn’t come over here to _interrogate_ me.”

“Trust me, I didn’t.”

So Albert kisses him and lets him crowd him against the door and tangle his hands in his hair. Race takes, so Albert gives, baring his throat when Race moves down to leave a mark there, raising his arms to allow Race to pull his shirt off in one swift motion, and leaning back against the door without complaint when Race loses himself in running his hands across the planes of his chest.

“You are fucking gorgeous; you know that, right?” Race sounds faraway, as though he’s mesmerized by Albert’s beauty, and for the first time, the redhead feels self-conscious.

“Shut up,” he pushes Race back into the cluttered dorm, watches him stumble onto the bed, and clambers after him, pressing the line of their bodies together as they embrace.

Race sighs and his legs fall open to bracket Albert’s hips, “you know I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.” It’s hardly even a whisper, but it makes Albert flush from his ears to his chest, which makes Race smile in turn. “So, you gonna fuck me, or what?”

“Guess so,” Albert says, faux-casual and teasing.

Race opens his mouth to reply, but Albert presses two fingers to his lips, and he changes his mind in favor of closing his mouth around the digits. Albert uses his other hand to yank Race’s boxers down around his thighs, and yeah, he gets the memo, doing his best to wriggle out. Once Race is fully naked, Albert pulls his fingers away, savoring Race’s gasp as he pushes one slowly into his already slick entrance. Albert shudders at the thought of the blond doing this to himself not an hour before, and Race arches back onto the bed, fisting one hand in the sheets to ground himself and blindly seeking Albert with the other. His hand lands on the redhead’s shoulder, leaving little crescent moons in his skin when he adds another finger. Albert fumbles quickly with his own fly, clumsy with only one hand, and kicks his jeans and underwear off.

“Nightstand,” Race says hoarsely, and Albert spies the condom and lube already set out for him.

“Somebody was optimistic,” he says with a strained laugh, and Race whines at the loss when Albert removes his hand to roll the condom onto his length and slick himself up.

“Listen,” he grates out, “I was right, wasn’t I?”

Albert shakes his head with a grin and ignores his scoff, making his voice gentle instead, “Are you ready?” The blond nods hastily, but it’s not to his satisfaction. “Race, look at me.”

Race’s eyes are glassy with desperation when he meets Albert’s gaze, and good lord, Albert doesn’t want to make him cry, wants anything but that. It almost makes him freeze, but then Race is pulling him down for a kiss, long and slow and dirty, and Albert only holds himself back until he hears, feels, Race whisper “yes” against his lips.

Their lips part in a shared gasp as their bodies connect, and it takes all of Albert’s willpower not to come on the spot as he bottoms out. For a moment, they’re both still, breathing as one. It’s Race who breaks the silence.

“Fucking _move_ , you animal!” His voice is tight with pleasure and pain, and it spurs Albert into motion as though lifting a spell that had been keeping him frozen.

Albert loses himself in the heat and bliss, savoring every gasp and groan he pulls from Race’s mouth. Dizzy from pleasure, he shifts just so, leaning down to press his forehead to Race’s, and on his next thrust, the blond lets out a broken moan. Race captures his lips again, and he sneaks a hand between their bodies to wrap around his length. It only takes a few strokes before Race comes, and Albert follows soon after, ecstasy crashing like a wave over the both of them. He pulls out slowly and gets rid of the used condom as Race reaches for the tissue box on the nightstand.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, lying back next to Race on the bed.

“Mmmmm yeah,” the blond agrees, turning on his side and becoming suddenly very focused on playing with a lock of Albert’s red hair.

Albert closes his eyes and smiles, “Wake me up when you’re going to dinner, yeah?”

“Seriously?” Race gives a little tug on his hair which makes Albert shake with silent, stubborn laughter. “OK fine, but you have to cuddle me.”

Albert raises an arm and wraps it around Race’s shoulders as the blond fits himself into his side and burrows his face into the crook of his neck, and he certainly doesn’t let himself think too hard about it when he drifts off to sleep, fingers tracing gentle patterns into his friend’s bare skin.


End file.
